


Stays in Vegas

by ariaadagio



Series: Lightning [2]
Category: Grey's Anatomy
Genre: F/M, Humor, Major Original Character(s), Male Objectification, Pirates, Romance, Strippers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-24
Updated: 2013-05-24
Packaged: 2017-12-12 21:19:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/816167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariaadagio/pseuds/ariaadagio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lightning Strikes Twice followup. Derek Shepherd and Stewart Manning have a boys' night out in Vegas. Luckily, what happens in Vegas...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is somewhat of a "years later" epilogue for Lightning Strikes Twice. If you haven't read Lightning Strikes Twice, this fic isn't going to make much sense to you, and most of the refer-backs will fly right over your head, but you might still get some enjoyment out of it. After all, there are pirate strippers.
> 
> Thank you so very much to my wonderful betas for reading this story about ten times each. I rewrote this so many times I lost count. Thank you to Liljan98 for the idea of including Stewart. Thank you to kimmy_p for the medical advice. Thank you to my readers for begging me to write the pirate stripper scenario. This fic is dedicated to HBR, because I wasn't able to fulfill her writer prompt from TDC2010.
> 
> The "show" in this fic is based loosely on Thunder From Down Under. I've been told that if you haven't actually seen one of these shows, you might be a bit shocked by the content ;p

**Stays in Vegas - Part 1**

“So, let me get this straight,” Derek said as he crossed his arms over his chest.

Stewart raised his eyebrows and regarded Derek with a placid, humoring expression. “Please, do.”

Plush, red carpet sprawled beneath them for what seemed like miles. Every few feet, one could find something to do or see. An open bar with an alcove of tables and chairs sat only a few feet away. An off key male singer on a raised stage screeched a cover of a Beach Boys song Derek hadn't heard in years, while scantily-clad women danced on tables. There were oxygen bars. Ice cream stands. Slot machines. Restaurants. Bars. Souvenir shops. Ticket counters. If you wanted to buy something or bet on something, chances were you could find a way to do so in a hundred feet or less. And there were people. Everywhere. The endless space associated with this indoor city veritably crawled with them.

People of all kinds and all walks of life. In a single glance to the surrounding area, Derek saw a man wearing frayed jeans and a t-shirt. He saw a small family policing three rambunctious toddlers, and a pair of women sporting business suits, chattering to each other as they trundled past with rolling suitcases. He saw a man showcasing leather pants so tight they looked spray painted on – which, really, wouldn't that chafe? -- no shirt, and an Indiana Jones style bullwhip coiled at his belt. A tiny woman who'd been caught in the crushing prison of osteoporosis hobbled past, followed by a clown. An actual clown. With curly red hair and a big red nose and a polkadot suit.

And that was just in one glance.

“We're in Vegas,” Derek said.

Stewart nodded. “Astute observation,” he said.

Derek and Stewart stood in front of a pair of closed double doors. They'd gotten there early enough that the line in front of them was less than two dozen people long, and nobody had filed in behind them, yet. Derek's gaze paused on the sprawling poster plastered on the door, at the long, Rockette-style line of shirtless-- He quickly looked back to Stewart.

“Our wives have given us license to do anything we want tonight,” Derek said.

“Anything, yes,” Stewart agreed.

“Anything at all.”

Stewart played with the fat straw that stuck up from the long plastic cylinder he held in his hands. The green liquid inside the tube sloshed as he lifted the straw to his lips and took a squeaky sip. Or, really, a gulp. He swallowed. He'd been working on that margarita for over two hours, but he seemed to be accelerating his quest to find the bottom of the glass. “Anything except hookers, yes,” Stewart said.

Derek shook his head. “I can't believe Sarah actually specified that.”

“I think she was joking.”

“You **think** ,” Derek said.

“Well, Meredith laughed, didn't she?”

“Chuckled.”

“Laughed,” Stewart countered. “And Sarah had a shifty gleam in her eye.”

“If you say so.”

Stewart nodded. “I do say so.”

“Anyway.”

Stewart took a long sip from his margarita. A long sip. Derek counted to ten before Stewart released the straw from his lips. Stewart sighed. “Yes?” he said.

“So, we can do anything except hookers,” Derek said.

Stewart raised his hand, took a breath, opened his mouth, and prepared what would surely be an intelligent, well-thought out reply, despite the fact that he'd been buzzing with inebriation since they'd stepped foot in this city, when a small slip of a woman who couldn't have been taller than 5'1”, sidled up to them. She held out a ticket stub and a Bic pen. The ticket stub was covered with the same Rockette line of shirtless-- Derek squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. When he rejoined the world, he saw the woman looking up at Stewart, who dwarfed her by a foot-and-a-half, and she batted her big, beauteous, weepy-looking eyes. Even as lanky as Stewart was, Derek felt like he was watching Mount Everest collide with the Appalachians. Derek rolled his eyes as Stewart melted into a pliable pile of goo before the tiny woman had even spoken a word.

“May I have your autograph?” she asked in a low, sultry tone as she proffered the ticket stub and the pen. “My boyfriend loves you.”

Stewart gave her a sloppy smile. “Sure. Who should I make it out to?”

“Steven,” said the woman.

Derek glowered as he found himself saddled with Stewart's almost empty 32 oz. margarita. Stewart used Derek's back as a table while he signed his name on the woman's ticket stub. Why he would choose to sign **that** ticket stub, Derek couldn't fathom, but then, Stewart had always sucked at saying no to fans. Absolutely sucked at it. He would have been the same grinning fool if it'd been a seventy-year-old man asking for the autograph instead – which it had been at least twice so far this weekend – and Derek would still have found himself serving as a hapless signing table. This entire vacation, which had involved collisions with a cornucopia of different people, had resulted in lots and lots of autograph requests, despite how long it had been since Stewart had been forcibly retired by his bum knee.

“Thanks!” said the woman.

“No problem,” Stewart said as the woman skipped back to her place several spots farther up in the line, closer to the door, to babble excitedly with her girlfriends.

The entire gaggle of them looked backward at Stewart, then at Derek, and then back to Stewart. They gave Derek and Stewart appraising looks before glancing at the sign on the door. Their tone dropped quickly to whispers and giggles, though Derek thought he might have gleaned, “Holy sex on a stick, Batman,” from the kerfuffle. Along with, “It fucking figures.”

Derek sighed as Stewart smiled and gave them a pendulous little wave, which only made their tittering **worse**.

Stewart recovered his margarita and took a sip. He looked back at Derek. “Where were we?”

“Hookers,” Derek said flatly.

“Ah, yes,” Stewart said. “Hookers. We can't do those.”

“My **point** was that we're veritably surrounded by ways to lose money.”

Stewart nodded. “Indeed,” he said, his tone placid. “Gambling. Shows. Amusement rides. Strip clubs.”

“Exactly.”

“Exactly, what?”

“We could do all of that or any of that.” Derek gestured at the double doors and the poster, trying to ignore the slurping sound as Stewart irreverently hit bottom on his gargantuan margarita. “And you want to do **this**?”

Stewart brushed his wispy black hair out of his face. His face had flushed with the tidal waves of alcohol hitting his bloodstream, and his eyes were bright. He smiled. More lewdly than innocently. “Sarah cashed in a sex coupon.”

Derek winced. This night was getting far too graphic, and they hadn't even done anything yet. “What does that have to do with this?” he said.

Stewart clapped Derek on the shoulder. “Research, man,” he said. “I need to do research.”

Derek glanced at the poster on the door and then back to Stewart. “Seriously?” Derek barked. “What the hell did you put on those coupons?”

Stewart waggled his thin eyebrows. “Wouldn't **you** like to know?”

“Actually, I think I really wouldn't.”

“Then why did you ask?” Stewart said, his tone exasperated.

Derek didn't even dignify the question with an answer. “I think I'm going to go play in one of the poker rooms. You, have fun.”

“You can't go,” Stewart insisted.

“Why not?”

Stewart's angular face sharpened with a dangerous smile. “Because you have to hold our spot in line.”

Derek blinked. “What?”

Stewart raised his eyebrows and gestured beyond Derek's shoulder. Derek turned around. Women at varying stages of inebriation had piled up behind them, and the line wrapped around the corner in the hallway, where it continued for who knew how long. When he turned back, Derek found Stewart staring at him with a mischievous grin, as if to say without saying, _Aren't you glad we got here early?_

Great. This was just great.

“I'm going to get a refill,” Stewart said.

Derek gestured at the empty margarita. “They're not going to let you into the show with that.”

“I know,” said Stewart. “I'll finish it before we go in.”

“It's 32 oz.”

“So?”

“I....” Derek shook his head and sighed. “Get me one. Please.”

Stewart smirked. “Need a little liquid courage, huh?”

Derek glowered. “I wouldn't call it courage. More like anesthesia.”

“Why do you need anesthesia?” Stewart said.

“Just get your fucking alcohol, Stewart,” Derek snapped.

“And yours.”

Derek rolled his eyes. “And mine.”

“Would you like a little green umbrella, or a little red one?”

Derek glared.

“Right,” said Stewart. “Red umbrella it is. Really, man, you need a sense of humor.”

“I **have** one already!”

Stewart laughed as he departed, his colossal strides eating up the space between the line for the show and the margarita bar he'd fixated on. “Clearly, it's a dud,” he called over his shoulder, and then he disappeared into the crowd. Well, as much as a man that tall could disappear or blend, which, honestly, wasn't much.

Derek watched Stewart's black-haired head longingly as his brother-in-law found the vendor he was looking for in the distance. Derek needed that margarita. He didn't typically like tequila, or drinks mixed from it. That was more Meredith's thing. But he wanted a good buzz if he was going to endure a night of iniquity, and any port worked in a storm.

Anesthesia would be damned nice right about now. It would prevent--

Nope.

Too late.

He sighed as he thought of Meredith in the naked sense. Again. He'd made it – he glanced at his watch – all of twenty minutes without naughty thoughts. She'd been hit or miss. Sometimes, she wanted him more than air. Other times, well, most times, lately, she couldn't bear the sight of him naked. The endless yo-yo had begun to frustrate him to the point of ache, but he endured.

He **made** himself endure. Reminded himself that there was a damned good reason for it. He'd made it his life's work not to beg her, no matter how often the insatiable voice in his head whined the words sex, and Meredith, and sexwithMeredith. She had enough to worry about. He could at least give her a worry-free zone on the husband front. Except after weeks and weeks of yo-yo, he thought he might lose his fucking mind.

He shifted on the balls of his feet.

Sex.

Meredith.

SexwithMeredith.

God, he wanted it. He missed it. He had unspent sperm up to his eyeballs. It'd begun to affect his higher brain function, and no amount of self-service in the shower seemed to be helping anymore. He couldn't stop thinking about it.

Sex.

Meredith.

SexwithMeredith.

Vegas had, in that respect, probably not been the best vacation choice. Reminders of sex were **everywhere** in Vegas.

“Hi,” said a rich, baritone voice, a bit too breathy to be sober.

Was Derek the only person sober left in the universe? He hoped Stewart would return soon.

Derek turned to face the stranger. The redheaded stranger was a tall man, but not towering like Stewart. A red bandana covered his round, bald head. He wore a leather jacket, jeans, a faded t-shirt and wire-rimmed glasses, and looked a bit like he'd gotten lost on the way to the all-you-can-eat dinner buffet a few hallways down. Judging from his beer belly and baby fat, he clearly liked to eat and drink. His leather coat squeaked as he shifted on his massive leather boots.

“Hello,” Derek said warily.

The man ran a meaty hand through his sunset-colored beard. And then he winked. “Have you seen this one before?”

“Um,” Derek said. He blinked. “No....”

“I heard it was really good.”

Derek shrugged. “If you say so.”

The man held out his hand. “I'm Jim.”

Derek blinked again as puzzle pieces slowly assembled. He offered the man a polite smile, but not his hand. “I'm not gay,” he said.

Jim glanced at the door and the poster, and then his gaze trailed down the endless line of chattering women. Derek stood sandwiched between them all, a lone tower of representation for the male sex. “Sure, you're not,” Jim said.

“No, I'm honestly not,” Derek said.

“They were out of the red and green umbrellas,” Stewart said as he slid back into place in the line, next to Derek, carrying two 32 oz. margaritas. He shoved one of them at Derek. “I had to get you a pink one. Who's your new friend?”

Jim rolled his eyes. “You could have just said you were taken.”

“I **am** taken,” Derek insisted. “By my **wife**.”

“Sure,” Jim said.

A long, lanky arm wrapped over Derek's shoulder and squeezed. “Honey,” said Stewart, “is this man bothering you?”

“Stewart--” Derek began, only to be interrupted as Jim's face lit up.

“Manning?” Jim said. “Stewart Manning?”

“Can I go play poker, now?” Derek said.

“Nope!” Stewart replied, smiling. “You owe me.”

“I do not owe you!”

“Riding lessons for Annie for five plus years at $75 a pop, I think you do owe me.”

Derek sighed. “That's a low blow.”

“It's a truthful blow,” Stewart said as he turned to their observer. He offered his hand. Derek rolled his eyes as they shook hands. “Yes, I'm Stewart Manning. Nice to meet you,” Stewart said.

Jim goggled for a moment. “I had no idea you were--”

Stewart drew his long, spindly index finger to his lips. He winked. “Shh.”

Jim nodded as though he understood completely. “Man,” Jim said as he glanced back to Derek. “Some guys have all the luck.”

“I am **not** gay!” Derek snapped.

Some of the ladies closest to them in line turned and looked at the trio with knowing smiles. A retired basketball center with a bum knee, a myopic Hell's Angels drop out, and a brain surgeon, standing in line for this kind of show? It felt a bit like the opener for a horrible punchline.

“Right, dude,” said Jim.

Derek sighed with defeat. He took a halfhearted sip of his margarita. This was going to be a long night of annoying mistaken identities, along with repeated reminders that every woman in Las Vegas seemed to want sex except his wife. The former? A bee-sting in the grand scheme of things. The latter? A great reason for getting drunk as a skunk. He took another sip as he worked himself up to it.

“Where did you get those?” Jim said, gesturing to the margaritas.

Stewart pointed in the direction he'd gone earlier. “There's a stand over there.”

“Thanks,” said Jim, and he left.

Derek took another sip of his margarita. The sour assault of lime made him wince. He surveyed the line, fixating on a tiny, freckle-faced brunette a few groups back in the line. She reminded him of Meredith, a little, except her hair was darker, and her chest was flatter.

“Maybe, this won't be so bad,” Derek mused. “I mean... there's lots of women to look at....”

“There you go,” said Stewart. He gave Derek a placating pat on the back. “You can watch the audience.”

And burn in unrequited sexual hell. Derek sighed.

Fuck. Maybe, he really did need anesthesia. Sexual anesthesia. He'd been half joking with himself but.... He stared at the alcoholic Big Gulp in his hands.

Derek crumpled the pink umbrella in his margarita, pulled out the straw, and tipped back the glass. Tequila slammed into his throat. The alcohol scorched his esophagus, and his eyes watered. He wanted to choke on the horrid lime taste, but he kept swallowing instead. Stewart watched with rapt amazement slathered on his face. His own thus far untouched margarita sloshed as he shifted on his feet.

By the time Derek stopped chugging, nearly half of his margarita had disappeared, and the room swam. Colors brightened. His face felt hot. The whole **room** felt hot. And there was that lovely buzz he desperately wanted. Maybe, a little too much buzz. More like a small siren. Tequila hit like a brick. “Whoa,” he said as the room sort of spun. He put a hand on Stewart's shoulder to keep himself from face-planting into the rug.

Stewart snickered. “You are such a lightweight.”

“I don't like being drunk,” Derek said. Except now.

“Clearly,” said Stewart.

“Shut up. I'm not used to tequila.”

Stewart snorted as he proceeded to sip his own drink as though it were hot coffee. The crowd pressed in as the show's start time neared. Noises seemed noisier. Derek pulled at his shirt-collar as his skin heated and flushed. Except the little brunette he'd spotted still reminded him of Meredith, and his brain went stupid, sexy places he didn't want it to go.

Sex.

Meredith.

SexwithMeredithgoddamnit.

Derek pushed to the bottom of his margarita, until the MeredithMeredithMeredith of it all slowed to a long stretch of syllables that made a lot less sense. He finished his entire margarita before the show, somehow. Derek swayed in line while Stewart went to throw out the glasses and straws, though Stewart hadn't finished his as he'd promised he would.

Two attendants dressed head to toe in black pushed open the double doors from within, which split the long rectangular poster on the front of the doors in half. Air conditioning blew against the crowd in a rush from inside of the theater. Bodies pressed inward as tickets were checked by the attendants. Derek moved forward with the crush. After they'd passed the gauntlet, Stewart pulled them out of the river of people and split to the left toward the bar.

“See if they have scotch,” Derek suggested over the loud hum of voices and giggles.

“How much?” Stewart asked.

“Oh,” Derek said. He waved his hand sloppily. “A jug.”

Might as well continue on the road to blitzed. Maybe, Meredith would take pity on him and give him sex if he stumbled into bed that night completely sloshed and moaning about what Stewart had done. And why was sex **still** stuck in his fucking head after 32 oz. of margarita mind fuck?

Stewart snickered. “You find seats,” Stewart instructed. “I'll find scotch.”

“'Kay,” Derek said, and he wandered back into the crush of women. Nobody seemed to pay him any mind.

Cold air blasted him. The semi-circular black theater consisted of two sections. Long, narrow tables, about fifteen seats per table, lined the lower floor in a giant, cafeteria-like spread. The upper section was more movie-theater-like, with chairs wrapped around the outside, but no tables. Most of the women pouring into the theater went straight for the tables closest to the stage. Derek veered to the left, clomped up a small set of stairs, and headed toward the back of the upper section. He sat down in the last row by the fire door. Stewart might not like it, but Stewart could have been the one to choose the seats, and he hadn't been. So, there!

Derek huddled in his seat, staring more at his lap than anything else, refusing to watch as the room filled with noise and heat made inevitable by so many people being crammed so tightly together. It would only get worse. The swirly feeling he'd gotten from the margarita he'd slammed didn't feel quite as swirly anymore, now that he was sitting and he hadn't imbibed anything new for a little while. Stewart needed to hurry.

“Excuse me,” a familiar voice said as he pushed past Derek's knees. Leather squeaked.

Derek sighed as he looked up to find the Hell's Angels reject.

“Relax,” said Jim. He took the seat two away, leaving one empty between them. “I just figured....” He shrugged. “Solidarity. You know?”

Derek gave up. “Sure,” he said. “Why not?”

“That's the spirit!” Stewart said cheerfully. He stood in the aisle by the fire exit, carrying two mugs. He glanced dubiously at the seat between Jim and Derek, and he frowned. “Come on, now, you know I like the aisle, honey.”

Derek rolled his eyes. “You're doing this to me on purpose.”

Stewart shrugged. His bounty of liquor sloshed in his arms. “I'm not tall on purpose.”

“This is ridiculous,” Derek grumbled as he moved over one seat. Jim's leather-clad shoulder touched Derek's.

“What's ridiculous is scotch in a pint-sized beer mug,” Stewart said as he proffered one drippy mug to Derek and then folded into the tiny seat, or, well, tried to fold. He shifted and squirmed and some of his beer splattered, but eventually, he managed to get one knee into the row at a diagonal. He let his other knee hang out into the aisle. “But I did it for **you** because you asked me,” he finished as if he hadn't just spent three minutes playing contortionist.

Jim watched this exchange with a fervent, admiring gleam in his eyes.

Derek took a slurp from his mug, trying to ignore the scrutiny.

“Do you have **any** idea how expensive that was?” Stewart said. “I mean, when you add in the cost of bribing the bartender to pour that much, it was exorbitant.”

“You'can afford it, Mr. MVP,” Derek said. Another chug of his scotch, and the world didn't seem so unfair anymore. He didn't mind that Meredith didn't give him sex very much. Actually, no. He did still mind. Meredith didn't give him sex anymore, and Stewart had taken him to a male strip show. Sex, but all the wrong kind just to torment him. Worse, his anesthesia in a mug wasn't working, because there was Meredith. Still in his fucking head. Naked. He took another sip of his scotch, and then he turned to Jim, frowning and frustrated. “This ssssucks. It sssucks!”

“Oh, you love me,” said Stewart as he waved his free hand dramatically. “You always said my money didn't matter!”

Jim chuckled.

Derek blinked, wishing he could achieve a numb stupor without risk of death. Sadly, he could not. He would try to maintain a healthy amount of inhibitory decimation and mental depression, at the very least, though. He watched, sipping from his scotch mug as the theater filled to the brim. Hundreds of women all crammed into the black theater like sardines. And they weren't even that fun to look at. The theater was only lit well enough for people to be able to find seats, which meant it was too dark to identify any feminine features worth staring at, and there were so many women that, in his state of intoxication, they seemed more like a singular, writhing mass. An intimidating, noisy mass.

No wonder they had the air conditioning blasting so hard, he decided, though he imagined that would be more relevant once the show actually started. The seats in the last few rows filled up. And then, speak of the fucking devil, the theater lights dimmed, and a deafening roll of high-pitched cheers churned through the audience. Derek squinted at the spotlight on the stage. Too bright. Everything swam.

“Good god. They're frightening when they congregate like this,” Stewart said. He took a sip from his beer mug and then stuffed it into his cup holder. He squirmed in his seat, a mess of gangly limbs. Eventually, he liberated a tiny notepad and a pen. He flipped past several pages.

“Seriously?” Derek said.

“What?” said Stewart. He tested his pen and drew a squiggle on the small lined sheet. His huge palm dwarfed the little booklet. “I need to take notes.”

“Are you **kidding** me?”

“I'm drunk,” Stewart said. “How else will I remember this stuff?”

Derek took chug from his scotch mug. His throat burned, and his eyes watered. “I don't want to remember,” he said.

“Well, you don't need to,” Stewart said. “You're not researching.”

Derek rolled his eyes. “Thankfully.”

A man walked in front of the thick red curtain to the center of the stage amidst a wave of cheers and table-pounding. He was blonde, had his hair cropped in a simple buzz cut, and he wore a white t-shirt and jeans and black Chucks just like Meredith's favorites. Derek frowned. This was not quite what he'd been expecting, but... okay.

That was when the man sidled to the microphone stand. He gripped the microphone with two hands and leaned forward, almost like he was kissing somebody. “Good evening, ladies,” the man purred. His voice rumbled through the entire theater from all the speakers.

The audience shrieked and catcalled with enthusiasm. Derek glowered. He jammed his scotch between his legs and covered his ears with his hands, which reduced the volume to something approaching a jet taking off instead of something that threatened to melt his brain.

“My name is Tyler,” the announcer said. “I'm your host.” He looked out across the crowd. “How is everyone tonight?”

The shrieking got even louder, if that were possible. Derek's ears throbbed. He pressed his hands harder against his ears. Stewart was right. Women were fucking crazy when they congregated.

“Is everybody ready for a feast of man flesh?” Tyler prodded.

Jim bounced in his seat and clapped, a bright smile on his face. Stewart waved a hand and blurted a cheerful, “Woo!” The rolling ovation from the women crashed through the room like a tsunami. Derek gave up trying to mute the overwhelming crush of estrogen. He thought his ears might be bleeding, but he lowered his hands, and he took another sip of his scotch to keep the announcer doing do-si-dos with the stage lights instead.

Tyler grinned, seemingly unfazed by the aural onslaught. Maybe he had earplugs. “So, I have to ask,” he said. “How many of you have significant others?”

Hands raised everywhere, including Stewart's. Jim glanced at Derek. Stewart pouted. “You're hurting my feelings, Der,” he said.

Derek rolled his eyes and didn't raise his hand. Though he was most certainly in possession of a significant other – naked Meredith! Sex! -- he didn't want to give Jim more ammunition for his Derek-is-gay theory.

“Well, guess what?” Tyler continued.

“WHAT?” yelled the crowd.

“None of that matters tonight,” Tyler said with a lascivious smile. “Whatever you do, we won't tell. Because you know what they say? What happens in Vegas....”

“STAYS IN VEGAS!”

Tyler clapped. “Precisely,” he said. “We want you to have fun tonight. Tonight is about fantasies made real. Are you having fun?”

“YES!”

“And we want you to keep having fun!”

More cheers.

“Feel free to look at whoever might walk past or on top of your tables, but, please, I do ask that there be no touching except to tip, and no photography,” Tyler said. He winked at the crowd. “I know it's tempting to immortalize this moment, but that means put your cell phones in your purses and turn them off, ladies. All right?”

“ALL RIGHT!”

“Are you ready, ladies?” he said.

“YES!”

“With that,” Tyler said, as he slid to the side dramatically, dragging the microphone and stand with him, “on with the show!” The chest-shattering throb of heavy bass began, followed by music so loud it hurt to hear and was impossible to identify. More deafening cheers rolled through the theater as the red curtain rose to reveal....

A pirate.

Derek blinked as the long-haired pirate swashbuckled his way to the front of the stage, showing off his leather boots and cape and ruffled shirt.

“Interesting costume choice,” Stewart said, yelling to be heard over the din. He scribbled on his notepad.

“I don't fucking want to hear about how you're going to be a pirate stripper for my little sister,” Derek said. He sipped more scotch. All the wrong kinds of sex, tonight. Wrong. Fucking. Kinds.

Jim frowned at them.

“Relax,” Stewart said. “I'm not going to be a pirate stripper.”

“Great.”

“I'm not sure I could pull off the feather in the cap.” Stewart squinted at the stage. “What is that? Ostrich?”

Derek sighed as the pirate threw his feathered cap to the floor and brandished his sword. Except, now, the pirate looked like Stewart. “I think I might throw up,” Derek said. He gulped more scotch as the pirate's shirt fluttered to the floor, and the crowd roared.

“Oh, relax,” Stewart said with a grin. “A little diversity is good for you.”

“Enduring a male pirate striptease for the sake of my sister's sex life is **not** diversity,” Derek grumbled.

Jim glanced away from the pirate to look at Derek for a moment. The show proceeded at a hellbent pace. The pirate finished his act, followed by cowboys and firemen and construction workers. Once all their power tools, shirts, and work boots had been discarded, some of the workers danced barefoot down the tables where the audience sat, gyrating amongst outstretched arms and shrieking women and waving dollar bills. Women who threatened to become grope-y were politely rebuked.

The half-naked construction workers poured water on themselves and stroked their glistening chests while they stomped their feet to the grinding rhythm of the music. One rambunctious woman reached out with her beer bottle and tried to hand it to one of the men to pour, but he politely pushed it away and continued his mechanical-but-seductive grind on the table above her. Stage hands scurried around and all over the floor between the tables. Another round of water was provided to the construction men dancing on the tables. They poured the pint-sized mugs on top of themselves. They got wet. Women got wet.

There was a whole lot of wet.

They ripped their pants away, and another estrogen cloud coalesced into an adoring collection of appreciative screams. The air had heated to a scalding degree by all the people in the room wanting things they couldn't have. And speaking of wanting, Derek sighed when he realized that despite this vivid visual extravaganza of male eroticism, Jim had decided to watch Derek more than the show. Derek glowered as he leaned into his elbow onto the arm of his chair, toward Stewart, who gleefully took the opportunity to give Derek a reassuring hug.

When the segment with the construction workers ended, and the music faded into silence, Tyler the announcer appeared back on stage with a shit-eating grin. He dragged the microphone and the stand with him like a dance partner. He settled in the center of the spotlight and waited while the shrieks and catcalls percolated.

Derek squinted at the bright light for a moment. He gave up and looked at his lap. He tried to glance at his watch to see how much more torture he'd have to endure for the sake of Stewart's edification, but he couldn't see in the dark. Whether that was because he was drunk, or it was dark, he didn't.... Fuck. Did it really matter?

He sighed and put his head in his hands as he stared into the scotch mug.

“Still having fun tonight?” Tyler purred into the microphone.

“YES!” roared the crowd.

“I need two volunteers to help me with our next act,” he said.

Hands shot up everywhere.

“Put your hand down if you're at all shy or a prude,” Tyler said with a chuckle.

Some hands in the audience dropped. Tyler grabbed the microphone from the stand and hopped off the stage. “All right. Cheer for me. Tell me you want it,” he said as he worked the crowd. Derek glanced upward as Tyler wandered back and forth in the tabled area in front of the stage. Tyler ricocheted between sections as they all fought to cheer louder. He picked a woman from one of the back rows of the back tables in the lower section. Derek sighed and looked away as Tyler presumably picked a second lamb for the slaughter of whatever act he'd planned.

Footsteps clomped through the microphone as the announcer and his two victims climbed up the steps to the stage.

“So, what's your name?” Tyler rumbled.

The microphone wailed with an electronic screech. “Melissa,” said a small, high-pitched voice after the interference had died down.

“Melissa,” Tyler said. “And where are you from, Melissa?”

“I'm from Milwaukee.”

Shuffling noises filtered through the microphone. “And you?”

“Meredith.”

Derek sighed. Meredith. If he'd known that Stewart's singular motive of the night had been to watch a male striptease, Derek would have begged Meredith to let him go on the ladies' night she and Sarah had planned. Whatever they'd put on the night's docket couldn't have been worse than this. Could it? He could fake his enjoyment on a shopping spree, or a performing arts show like O or Ka, and he would have genuinely enjoyed almost anything else they could be doing right now. Like gambling.

Meredith, it turned out, liked craps. A lot. He'd always preferred poker before, but he was fast revising his tastes. Meredith had made him over a thousand dollars that afternoon. She'd been the shooter for almost three hours. Had the table not been solid, it would have bowed under the amazing crush of energy as excitement had built. She'd struck up a hilarious rapport with almost everyone at the table, dealers included, because she was Meredith, and she was....

Well, she was perfect.

He grinned as he recalled her dice-rolling ritual, which, since kissing the dice wasn't allowed, involved her blowing him a kiss. He sighed. Meredith. Naked. Sex. SexwithMeredith. How could he not stop thinking of his endless sexual frustration for more than five minutes?

He took a sip of his scotch.

“Meredith,” said Tyler. “That's a pretty name. Where are you from?”

“Seattle.”

Wait.

Derek's gaze shot up to the stage. The room swam as his neurons tried to fire despite the buzz and fuzz of alcohol choking his brain. Meredith stood by the microphone, wearing a lilac-colored top, jeans, and some lilac-colored flip-flops that matched her shirt. The same outfit she'd been wearing earlier when they'd kissed goodbye after dinner, and Stewart had dragged him off. She swept her loose hair behind her ears.

Her belly was swollen like she'd stuffed a beach ball under her shirt, and she glowed. She positively glowed as she cupped a hand over her enormous stomach. She always complained that she looked fat, but she didn't.

She looked pregnant with their first child. Pregnant, and perfect. Beautiful.

Glowing.

Except she was on stage at an all-male revue.

Derek's jaw dropped. His anesthesia failed like an egg splattering on the pavement.

Stewart snickered. “I was waiting for you to notice.”

“Is this why you dragged me here?” Derek demanded.

“No,” Stewart said. “I've only known since she got up on stage a minute ago.”

“But, she's....” Derek said. He pulled his hands through his hair, agitated. “They said....”

Stewart shrugged. “They said they were going to have a ladies' night.”

“ **Here?** ”

“What exactly did you think ladies' night meant?” Stewart said.

“I don't know,” Derek said, helpless, and wishing Meredith were anywhere but here. His endless frustration was much more livable when, in his head, she was watching all the pretty people perform at O. “Cirque Du Soleil?” he said. “Craps? Meredith likes to play craps.”

“Apparently not as much as she likes naked men, my naïve friend,” Stewart said sagely. He patted Derek on the shoulder as he took a sip of his beer.

“All right, ladies,” Tyler said. “This is a contest. Winner gets all her fantasies fulfilled. Are both of you ready?”

Derek watched with rapt attention as Meredith nodded. He didn't pay any mind to the other girl. Mindy or Maureen or whatever her name was. Meredith smiled mischievously at the crowed, seemingly unperturbed by the noisy, staring audience.

“I want each of you to fake an orgasm for the microphone,” Tyler said. “The audience will pick the better faker by cheering.”

Mona's eyes widened to the size of saucers. Meredith grinned slyly.

Tyler laughed as he shook his head. “I said to put your hand down if you're a prude or shy,” he scolded as he pushed the microphone in Molly's face. “Make us believe, Melissa.”

Right. Melissa. That was it. Not that it mattered. Derek took another burning sip of scotch.

Melissa wheezed into the microphone. A shaky, “Oooh, oh,” followed as she jerked stiffly, more like she was having some sort of epileptic seizure than a fit of ecstasy. The audience wasn't impressed. Jeers slammed into the stage.

Tyler shook his head and gave the microphone to Meredith. “Please, tell me you can do better,” he said.

Better didn't adequately describe it.

Meredith started with a low, breathy purr that rose in volume. She looked through her long eyelashes into the audience as she exhaled. Another moan. Another. She gradually increased her volume, working the crowd, but then it was like a switch had been flipped. Her hands went to her belly, and she moaned so thoroughly and deeply, she sounded like she was in pure rapture. The whole display took several minutes.

The familiar sounds laved Derek's ears like a sexual balm, and he found himself squirming in his seat, longing for imagined sex to become real. He wanted her, and he hadn't had her in weeks. He'd heard her shout those things in his ears so many times his response had become rote. After five years of marriage, of knowing her carnally and being known by her in return, all she really had to do was whisper or crook her finger, and he was hers. Normally, he liked what his body did in her presence. But he'd been starved, and this was....

Unbearable.

The audience erupted into deafening cheers as Meredith subsided into soft, throaty panting. He slugged back more of his scotch, but he could still hear her in his head, long after she'd stopped performing for the microphone. Need burgeoned despite the buzz.

“Should she be that good at faking it?” Stewart called over the crowd.

Derek blinked. “She's not faking.”

“That wasn't faking?”

“I mean she doesn't fake **with me** ,” Derek snapped. Jim stared at them curiously, but Derek didn't care. He really wished he could be with Meredith not faking it right now. Literally now. He took a swig of scotch as wanting so intense it was painful racked his body.

“Maybe, I should be taking notes from you instead of from the strippers,” Stewart said. “Do you know any good stripteases?”

Derek barely paid attention to his brother-in-law's chatter as he stared at the stage. Meredith rubbed her belly. Derek grimaced. His jeans had become uncomfortable and tight. He squirmed in his seat, trying to find a comfortable way to sit, except moving around just made sure the denim rubbed him, and that only perpetuated his hellish, expanding problem.

“Clearly, this woman knows sex,” Tyler said, gesturing at Meredith's distended belly, too huge for such a tiny woman to be mistaken for anything **but** pregnancy, and the crowd cheered more.

A stagehand brought a wheeling executive chair out to Meredith. Tyler urged her to sit in it. They exchanged brief words. Derek thought he saw her say, “How long?” but he couldn't figure out Tyler's response. Tyler pointed to the chair. Meredith smiled shakily. She collapsed into it like a sack of rocks, and then Tyler placed a sparkling rhinestone crown on her head. He wheeled her to the center of the stage, facing the audience. He stood behind the chair.

Music throbbed from the theater speakers, and the audience erupted as Tyler, the innocuous announcer, ripped off his shirt to reveal an astounding set of muscles. His stomach looked sort of like a washboard, and his pecs bulged. He shifted to the relentless beat.

He moved to the side and spun Meredith's chair to meet him, giving the audience a profile view. Meredith's face remained even, but she clapped. Clapped! Derek ground his teeth as Tyler took her hands and stuck them down his pants. Her mouth formed a tiny, kissable 'o'. She leaned forward, panting, toward Tyler.

The sexual heat in the room became sweltering, and everything in his body hurt as Derek watched the striptease with jealous, unblinking interest. He couldn't catch his breath, and his pants chafed so badly he would have debated ripping them off if it weren't for Jim's rabid, unblinking stare. Tyler unbuttoned his jeans and let them fall down his skinny hips, revealing the creases of his groin, and a white spandex g-string underneath. Meredith stroked her stomach as she watched this other man strip for her, inches away. Her face flushed, and her eyes turned glassy, just like they always did during sex. She wouldn't stop touching her pregnant belly, and it--

Drove.

Derek.

Crazy.

Stewart pressed a hand on Derek's shoulder. “Down, boy,” he said.

When the act concluded, the announcer waved to the crowd, wearing nothing but his microscopic g-string. He bowed to a swell of clapping. He spoke to Meredith for a moment. She smiled and nodded, rising shakily to her feet, and then she wobbled off the stage as the curtains fluttered shut so the stage setting could be changed. She grabbed the railing on the way down the steps, like she couldn't even walk, which was just... grandstanding her euphoria to an evil level. She rubbed her stomach all the way back to her seat, but she didn't sit. Her face was flushed, and she looked....

Fuck. She looked totally aroused.

In the dim light, Derek watched Meredith bend forward to speak against another woman's ear. Sarah, probably, though Derek couldn't tell from that distance. Meredith's rhinestone crown tipped forward, but she caught it. The other woman got up. Yep, Sarah. Sarah stumbled after Meredith, clearly inebriated, judging from her awkward shuffle. Meredith plowed toward the theater exit as she fumbled with her purse for something. Her wallet, maybe, for tips. For Tyler. God. The cell phone in Derek's pocket rang, except he'd put it on vibrate earlier in the day, and the assault of sensation in his pants made him tense and clench his teeth. And then he couldn't take it anymore.

He stood, leaving his unfinished scotch mug behind. Black squeezed his vision with the change in elevation. “Whoa,” he said faintly. He might have drunk a bit too much. Just a bit. Or a lot.

“What are you doing?” said Stewart as Derek tried to blink the whirligig to a halt. After two deep breaths, Derek felt better.

Jim's eyes widened at the tent in Derek's jeans. “Not gay, huh?” he said, eyelevel with Derek's painful bulge.

“That was my **wife**!” Derek snapped as he turned to leave.

A hand caught Derek's shirt. “Don't,” Stewart said. “It's ladies' night!”

Derek ignored his brother-in-law, though Stewart, with his long legs clogging the row, made it impossible to exit without climbing on top.... Derek glared at Stewart, who remained obdurate and motionless. Fuck it. Derek climbed. Flailed. Stewart's beer spilled everywhere when Derek's knee hit the cup holder.

“Hey,” Stewart complained.

Derek ignored Stewart and stumbled after Meredith, trying to stay upright despite fact that flat surfaces had become a gigantic obstacle course of alcoholic seesaws. Derek wanted off the ride. Now.

He fumbled his way out of the theater. He found them just as they reached the hallway leading out into the main hotel. Meredith turned. She had that same flushed, glassy-eyed look pasted on her face that she'd had at the strip show. Her lips parted in surprise. She had a chance to say, “What?” before Derek collided with her.

He fell on her with a smoldering, punishing kiss. She remained stiff and unyielding in his clumsy arms for a long moment that tormented him. A small moan caught in the back of her throat, music to his ears. He drank her down. He pressed against her, pushing her back against the wall by a lone slot machine. Her warm body lit him on fire, and his jeans tightened further, until they were a vise. A prison. Torture.

He moaned. Meredith moaned.

She hadn't let him kiss her like this in weeks, and he just about died from the overwhelming bliss of tasting something he hadn't tasted in so damned long. Except she wasn't loosening up. In fact, she'd put a hand on his breastbone. She pushed.

No. No, no, no. This could **not** be happening.

Sarah tugged on his shirtsleeve, but he didn't care about anything except the fact that Meredith was pushing him away, which, in that moment, after he'd watched her pant and moan and blush over a striptease from another man, slayed him. How could she want a stripper and not him? He'd strip. He'd do anything. All she had to do was ask.

“Derek,” Sarah hissed. She said something else, but the words were slurred and drunken, and he couldn't be troubled to try and interpret when he'd just been murdered by his wife.

“Derek,” Meredith said, “what the hell are you doing here? Are you drunk?”

Derek cringed at her harsh tone. His shoulders slumped. There would be no sex tonight, and he was going to go insane. Well and truly insane.

“What are **you** doing here if you don't want sex?” Derek replied. He frowned. He couldn't hear himself slurring. But, apparently, she could.

“Oh, my god, you're drunk,” Meredith said. “Why are you drunk? Why is **everybody** drunk!”

He blinked, confused. “Stewart bought me a 32 oz. margarita and a mug of scotch,” he said stupidly.

Meredith looked ready to scream at him, but when her mouth opened, all she did was moan like she was having another fake orgasm. She leaned into his body, shaking.

He ground his lower body against hers. Her pregnant belly pressed into him. “You're not doing the act anymore,” he said, more a plea than anything else. If only she would stop, his torment might cease.

“No, I--” she began, only to halt mid-sentence. She grabbed his biceps and squeezed him to the point of blistering pain. She panted, or gasped, really, as he tried to pull away from her, but she wouldn't let go.

“Ow,” he said, frowning. “Meredith--”

“Derek, you shhh...” Sarah tried. “You shhould get the....” She swallowed as she swayed helplessly on her high-heeled feet. Her small black purse dragged on the ground as it slipped down her arm. “Car. Get the car.”

“Why?” he said.

Meredith's hands loosened. Sweat dotted her brow and glistened in the dim light. Her rhinestone crown glittered. “Because I'm having contractions,” she said.

He blinked. “What?”

“Contractions,” she repeated.

“But you're not due yet.”

She glared. “Tell that to my freaking uterus.”

“Braxton Hicks?” he said.

“I thought they were Braxton Hicks earlier. That's why I didn't say anything,” she said.

“Earlier?” he snapped. “How much earlier?”

“Since before dinner,” she said. “I didn't want to worry anybody.”

Derek glanced at his watch. The numbers on the digital display swam, and his arm didn't seem to be holding still. He shook his wrist and tried again. It was twelve-thirty. “We had dinner over six hours ago,” he snapped.

She gave him a guilty look, but didn't have a chance to reply before she collapsed against him, gasping. A long, low moan fell from her lips. For a moment, he stood there, Meredith jammed between him and the wall, panting and moaning like she was having sex with him, and he was stupefied. The room spun as he tried to gain traction with logical thought processes. His jeans hurt. How much of the orgasm on stage had been her giving birth, and how much of it had been her playing? Maybe not any. Maybe... Why did it matter? His starving penis clearly thought it mattered at that moment. He shifted uncomfortably. But she was **giving birth**. Right then. She'd been in labor for more than six hours, already. Six. Fucking. Hours. **More than**. He blinked.

“Derek, my water broke onstage,” she said.

And the river of brainless stupid just kept flowing in Derek's head. He stared at her.

“Derek,” she prodded. “Help.”

Moments passed in a vacuum. He couldn't think. He pulled his cellphone out of his pocket, only to discover that the vibrating call in his pants had been Meredith. She hadn't been wading in her purse for tips. She'd been trying to reach him with speed dial. He called Stewart, who picked up on the second ring. Music throbbed and hissed like a bench grinder in the background.

“You need to get the car,” Derek said before Stewart could say hello.

“What?” Stewart said. “Why?”

“Because Meredith is in labor, and you need to get the fucking car,” Derek said. “You have the valet ticket.”

“But we're drunk.”

“What?”

“We're all drunk, man,” Stewart said. “Meredith is our designated driver, remember?”

“I.... I....” Derek stuttered. Meredith was in labor. She was in labor with their first child, and he was drunk and sexually frustrated to the point of agony, and he couldn't handle thinking right now. “Taxi line. We're....” He grabbed Meredith's slender wrist and guided them out of the hotel, fighting the seesaw for all he was worth. He **hated** being drunk.

“Other way,” Meredith hissed. She jammed her thumb over her shoulder. “The exit is **that** way.”

Derek reversed directions. Sarah stumbled after them. “I'll be right out,” Stewart said in Derek's ear. Derek hung up his phone and crammed it into his pocket.

“How can you be in labor?” he said as they dashed past the roulette tables, chased by a drunk Sarah.

“I don't freaking know!” Meredith said.

“We're in Vegas!”

The endless drone and ring of the slot machines crashed against his ears. “I **know** that!” she said.

“We're in Vegas, and you're not due yet!” he argued.

“I **know** ,” she snapped, and she wheeled to a stop. Her arm extended when Derek kept walking, only to snap when it couldn't go anymore. Derek stopped and turned around to find a grimace of pain slathered on her face. She moaned. He didn't know what to do. He'd theoretically been preparing for this moment for months. He'd seen women give birth before. Hell, he knew how to deliver a baby, though he hadn't done it since his residency, nearly two decades ago. But this was Meredith. This was Meredith, not some random stranger, and he was so sloshed and aroused he couldn't quite see straight.

He wrapped his arms around her. She curled up against him, shaking as pain overwhelmed her in the middle of the gambling floor. Craps tables and blackjack tables lined the titanic room up and down along the plush, ornate red carpet.

“Der...” Meredith whispered. She clutched his t-shirt as the closest craps table erupted into groans.

“Seven out!” called the dealer.

Clots of people moved away from the table with frowns plastering their faces.

“This is not supposed to be happening,” he rambled uselessly. His brain wouldn't stop buzzing. “You're not supposed to have the baby until after we get back. This was our last hurrah!”

She pulled away from him to glare. “Fucking **hurrah**!” she snapped.

“But, Meredith--”

“WOULD YOU SHUT THE HELL UP?” she yelled.

He shook his head and grabbed her hand. “We're going, we're going!”

The three of them stumbled toward the taxi line, pausing every so often for Meredith to agonize over another contraction. His mind raced as he tried to make sense of everything in front of his eyes. Meredith in labor. Pretty colors. Loud noises. Seesaws. People. Everywhere.

Meredith in **labor**.

Why did Vegas hotels have to be so damned huge?

*****


	2. Chapter 2

**Stays in Vegas - Part 2**

Derek woke up to pain and the sound of Stewart mumbling too loudly.

Derek blinked. The bright hallway swam before his eyes. Exhaustion squeezed behind his eyes. Overall, his eyes felt ready to pop like grapes. He rubbed his eyelids with his hands, trying to clear the cobwebs and the pressure.

The urge to sleep pressed on his brain. It'd been a long night. He straightened his neck. Vertebra popped. He shook his arm. The intravenous line running into his forearm stung a bit. He glanced at the IV pole. An almost empty banana bag dangled from the top.

The hospital staff had done their best to get him fully functional for the auspicious moment in which pending fatherhood shifted to actual fatherhood. He stared at his hand, remembering how mercilessly Meredith had squeezed it last night. He remembered yelling encouragements. He remembered the healthy first scream of his baby boy, and holding him in his arms. He remembered all of it.

When Meredith had nodded off following the birth, he'd wandered while the squeaky pole had followed him. Patrolling the halls, he'd called his mom on his cellphone to tell her she had another grandson to dote over. They'd talked for five minutes, at best. He'd been too wired to sleep but too exhausted to do much of anything useful like talk intelligently. He'd ended up in the hallway by the observation window at the nursery, where, after watching his brand new son sleep in his isolette for an hour, he'd collapsed into one of the chairs along the far wall.

He didn't remember a goddamned thing after that.

He glanced at his watch, but he gave up trying to read it. His eyes wouldn't focus. Stewart stood across the wide hallway, in front of the viewing window, tapping it with his big index finger. His huge but narrow body blocked whatever he was looking at. “Your mommy and daddy are sleeping,” he whispered at the window, “and your aunt Sarah is calling your grandma to tell her the awesome news that you're still you after thirty minutes of radio silence, so I figured we could have some one-on-one time. What do you think?”

“Are you corrupting my son already?” Derek grumbled as he tried to straighten. He winced as he stumbled toward the viewing window. The IV pole followed him, wheels squeaking. A thin, brunette nurse held the baby up for Stewart, smiling.

“It's interesting you should say that,” Stewart said, his gaze lingering on the newborn.

“Why?”

“Are we telling this story to the kid when he grows up?”

“What story?”

“He was born on the eve of sin and debauchery after his father caught his mother faking an orgasm at a male striptease.”

“Well, you know what they say,” Derek murmured.

“What do they say?”

“What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.”

Stewart chuckled.

Derek squinted. The nurse put David back in his little isolette. He'd been wrapped in a fuzzy blue blanket that left nothing but his button-sized nose and mouth and eyes showing. The sight hypnotized Derek. He was a dad. **How had that happened?** He put his hand on the glass and couldn't stop staring at the little person Meredith had introduced to the world earlier that morning.

Their son.

 _If, in a split second, I had to say yes right now or no forever, I know I'd say yes,_ Meredith had told him years ago. _Because I want them someday. With you, I want them someday. With you._

He blinked. His eyes were watering. That had to be the hangover. Right? He blinked as his throat filled up with a giant lump, and suddenly, he didn't feel tired or hurting or sexually deprived anymore.

He had everything and wanted nothing.

He felt fucking **great**.

“So, what's our cover story then?” Stewart said. “Birth isn't like proposing marriage. You can't just keep redoing it until you get a g-rated version.”

Derek ignored Stewart as he stared through the glass. The nursery was filled with at least a dozen wriggling, crying babies. But Derek saw only one of them, as though the rest of the world had been caught behind an eclipse. David had been born just shy of thirty-six weeks. Technically premature, but not really considered a preemie. He'd been born with zero complications, not even jaundice, and that was all that mattered to Derek.

“I can't get over how tiny he is,” Derek said, his voice thick with emotion.

“They do tend to start that way.”

Derek stared.

“Before you know it, though, he'll want to go out on a date with a pretty girl,” Stewart said. “And you'll say no. And he'll say he hates you. And you'll wonder what the hell happened.”

Derek snickered. He wiped his wet eyes and looked at Stewart. “Lindsey?”

Stewart sighed. “She met a boy before we left for Vegas. Fourteen is too young to be dating. Isn't it?”

“I don't know,” Derek said. “I don't remember.”

Stewart nodded. He gestured at David. “You'll be more opinionated when he's bigger than a small cantaloupe.”

“Are you comparing my son to a melon?”

Stewart stared at the small bundle wrapped in blue. He scrunched his nose as he pondered the intricacies of Derek's question. “I think melons aren't quite so wrinkly,” Stewart decided.

Derek frowned. “He's not wrinkly.”

“Smooshed, then,” Stewart said. “It takes them a while to unkink.”

“Unkink?”

Stewart shrugged. “You try coming out of a ten centimeter pipeline without being kinked.”

They both stared, side by side, for a long, silent moment. Stewart dwarfed Derek, but in that moment, Derek felt bigger than anyone. His chest squeezed with a weird... something. The lump in his throat wouldn't go away. He couldn't describe how he felt as he watched the sight beyond the window.

David Stewart Shepherd. Ten tiny fingers. Ten tiny toes. 18.7 inches. 5.2 pounds. Overall, perfect.

Stewart didn't say a word when Derek wiped his face with the backs of his palms again.

“I have to check on Meredith,” Derek said, his voice rough.

“She's probably still sleeping,” Stewart said.

“I still have to check.”

Stewart grinned. “I remember that feeling.”

“Even twelve years after Annie?”

Stewart's grin widened. “I'll probably remember it until the day I die,” he said.

Derek returned his brother-in-law's smile briefly before turning. He grabbed his IV pole. Meredith's room was down the hall, around the corner.

“Hey,” Stewart called after him.

Derek looked back. “Yeah?”

Stewart cocked his narrow face to the side. “If what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas,” Stewart said, “doesn't that mean we have to leave the kid here?”

Derek snorted, but didn't reply as he turned back to the task at hand. Finding Meredith. He trundled down the long, white hallway, squinting against the bleary feeling that told him to collapse. To sleep. He knocked softly before shuffling into Meredith's room with the IV pole trailing behind. He sat in the chair by the bed.

Meredith lay in the bed, snoring. Out cold. Exhausted after hours of hard work. A plastic nametag encircled her thin wrist. He remembered clutching that wrist the night before as he'd dragged her out of the hotel to the taxi line.

The lump in his throat burgeoned.

 _Will you marry me?_ he'd asked her years ago, kneeling under the halo of colored lights and icicles dangling from his mother's frozen gazebo.

Derek smiled, and he let his eyelids droop as the memory ran through his tired brain to completion. The chair squeaked as he leaned back. She stirred.

Her eyes opened to soft, gray slits.

“Hey,” she said hoarsely.

Derek smiled wider. “Hey.”

“How's David?” she said.

“Stewart's probably busy explaining the merits of domestic beers versus foreign to him,” Derek said.

Her face tipped to the side. Toward him. “Hmm.”

He leaned over the bed railing and pressed a soft kiss against her forehead. “You did it, Mere,” he whispered. “I love you.”

“Love you, too,” she replied.

He brushed his fingers through her stringy, messy hair. Dark circles hugged the skin underneath her eyes. Her normally bronzed, freckled skin seemed pallid with her exhaustion.

He didn't think he'd ever seen her more beautiful.

“Go back to sleep,” he told her.

“'Kay,” she replied.

He returned to his chair. He smiled at his wife. And then he answered the siren call of sleep.

~FIN~


End file.
